


In the Starless Night

by PenelopeGrace



Category: Original Work
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Afterlife, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:13:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6109067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeGrace/pseuds/PenelopeGrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emotions are weapons.</p><p>Ashlina Xi knows that better than anyone. She has used them against her grandmother, and she knows she is more than prepared to fight in the chessboard of the afterlife. As a pawn in an unorthodox game of chess, she will need to promote herself to a queen or else she'll lose her freedom.</p><p>Death or Life.</p><p>Two courts. Two choices. She can become a reaper of souls or the deliverer of newborns. She just needs to be strong enough to seize the throne.</p><p>Love is a weakness.</p><p>But there is her mentor, who is aloof and then warm. The more she spends time in his presence, the more distracted she becomes. When the lines of their mentorship begin to blur and predictions of an incoming war are made, Ashlina will have to make a choice—to let go of him or stay.</p><p>For better or worse, she will be a queen. She will rise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Starless Night

Hate courses through my bloodstream as I stare blankly ahead at the bare walls in front of me. My white jumpsuit's collar itches my neck, and my fingers twitch just slightly and long to alleviate my discomfort. But it will only make it worse, because this is my hell. My literal hell. My punishment for theft.

I think I have only been in here for a day.

But I don't know. Time is worth nothing here.

"Minimum security prison, cell block fourteen, cell three," says an unfamiliar voice, walking by my shared cell in a saggy black uniform. Thin, blond, and tall, he whack his bayonet against the metal bars. A loud buzz precedes the opening of the door of white-painted bars.

I glance slightly to the right to see three other girls in my very cell. We all sit up straighter, glazed looks in all of our eyes. We have been waiting for this moment for a long, long time.

The jailer rattles off our names. "Prisoners stand up. Caine, Mia. Castillo, Zoey. Schwarz, Lucia. Xi, Ashlina. Follow me in a straight line."

I push up from the cold bench and line up behind Zoey. Narrowing my eyes at the front of our short line, I'm tempted to shove the jailer into a nonexistent closet and make a run for it. But there is nowhere to run. No place to hide. No way to escape. No chance to see the sunlight. I don't even know which way is north.

I stare at the long, curly hair in front of me. I take a careful whiff, disgusted by the smell. Unwashed hair! How many days has she spent showering this month? None at all?

"You need good conditioner," I mutter, ignoring the loud creak of the closing cell door. "What do you use?"

"Shut it!" screams the jailer, bringing the bayonet against the metal bars of other cells to a loud ding. "Walk forward! No talking!"

Resting in their own cells, fellow prisoners, shaking away their bored expressions, stare at us as we pass by to our fates. Open, greedy hands clutch the prison bars. Some press their ashen-colored faces against the bars, but the truth is that they are as free as we are—which is to say, that we are not free at all.

After countless checkpoints and guarded gates and seemingly aimless hustling, the prison guard usher us into a conference room in need of a good clean. A wooden conference table takes up nearly the entire room; and it forces the chairs against the bare walls. The sole prison guard pulls the conference table to the center of the room, and he straightens a little.

"Sit down," he orders.

None of us need further prompting. We pull out chairs and sit down at the table—the farthest seats away from the prison guard and his bayonet. Silence yells loudly in our ears, and I swear I can hear someone else's frantic heartbeat—or maybe, it is mine. My hands fidget under the table. Bored of the quiet, I allow myself to strike up a conversation. I stare at the smelly-hair girl who is around sixteen years old.

The first words that come out of my mouth doesn't sound very polite. "Do you not use conditioner? I can suggest some excellent conditioner that is amazing with curly hair."

When the prison guard makes no attempt to silence us, the girl finally answers. Her throat cracks, and she runs her quivering hand through her curly hair. Her eyes look at one place for long, and she doesn't meet my own face. "Where I come from, we are having the worst drought in decades."

"Oh." I easily accept her words and genuinely smile. "Your name?"

"Zoey."

"Ashlina. Call me Ash."

She nods, her dark eyes narrowed.

She doesn't trust me. Not surprising.

"What did you do?" I inquire, turning to my left. Lucia Schwarz—one of the girls who actually talked to me back in the jail cell—combs her own hair with pale fingers. She lets it fall to her shoulders.

"What?" She blinks blankly at me.

"To get punished in hell."

The door bursts open again, and in a straight line, seven boys in white jumpsuits march in. Three prison guards herd them and command the boys to sit. I stare at them all, noting the bruises and cuts that heal at an exponential rate. They have fought recently.

Eleven prisoners. Four guards. We can overpower them, but where can we run? Where in hell can we hide from torture? Heaven is too far.

The door flies open one more time. This time two men scramble in. The one with raven-colored hair loudly pants and jumps into the seat at the head of the table. He spins around once in the swiveling desk chair, stirs up a grey cloud of dust, and gives us all a wide grin with intelligent eyes. "So you are the new pawns."

Whispers come from the back of the room. The prison guard that brought the girls and I in converse with the other three prison guards. Three male guards, one female.

"Now, let's see here." The groomed man—wearing an English suit I drool at—reaches underneath the table and pulls out a briefcase. From the leather briefcase comes out eleven yellow folders stuffed with wrinkled sheets of paper. "You are all in Punishment for some reason—murder, arson, theft, etcetera. But you have all been granted a second chance. A chance to change your ways and leave the world you left behind in a better place."

Tearing my gaze away from the velvet suit with notch lapels and a plain pocket square in its breast pocket, I snort at his words—at those blatant lies. I run my hands over the cold wood surface. Dust coat my fingers, and I resist wiping it on my jumpsuit.

The suit turns his head at me. Amused, he arches his thin eyebrows. I would consider him handsome, but he is… off in some way. Maybe it is the way his eyes linger on Zoey's chest area or the calculated looks he throws at the chatting guards. "You have something to say about that, Miss…?"

All eyes turn to me.

"Xi," I fill in, glowing under the spotlight. Shaking away my suspicions and paranoid thoughts, I laugh. "I'm sorry… How you are explaining things is hilarious. You make it sound as if the chessboard is coming straight out of a Disney fairy tale. You're sugarcoating it."

"Okay." He smiles wickedly, straightening the folders in front of him. He claps his hands together and leans back in his chair. "Then tell me about the chessboard, Miss Xi. Don't sugarcoat it."

"We are all dead. We have been in the afterlife, sentenced to this hell," I say, pointing out the obvious. Casually analyzing every one of my prison mates, I stroke the desk's surface. Pawns, future enemies, possible allies—there are too many titles I have for them.

A pause.

"There's a game. A dangerous game," I continue. I meet the eyes of every person—except for the prison guards—in this room. "It is called the chessboard. The chessboard is a square piece of land, bordered by Paradise, Limbo, Punishment, and a portal to the mortal world. The mortal world is the world we left behind." I tilt my head. My sarcastic tone pierces the air, and I raise my chin high. "Got it so far?"

"Yep," answers Lucia. She cleans her fingernails and mutters, "Maybe you should hurry up. I'm getting bored here."

Ahh… Lucia probably has a Legacy in her family. Legacies are those who carry on knowledge of the afterlife to the next generation. The ones who get to live older than twenty-five.

Enemy? Or ally?

It's too soon to tell.

I return my focus on the little lecture I'm giving. "The chessboard has two groups of people. One is called a chess piece. We, as pawns, are chess pieces. The White Queen and Black King are chess pieces. There are knights, bishops, and rooks. But instead of chess pieces moving as actual chess pieces, we have powers. Superpowers."

"Cool!" blurts out of the guys.

I ignore him. "The other group is called Shades. They are former chess pieces, who choose to watch over and take care of the chessboard. They usually work as servants and housekeepers."

"What is the point of this?" interrupts Zoey, her lips quivering slightly.

I examine my audience. A few pawns pick at their fingers, an Asian boy stares intently at me with a cold fascination, and most of the girls avoid my gaze. The suit only smiles with faint amusement—and I don't like that look at all.

"I'm getting to it," I hiss, throwing shade at Zoey with my eyes. "Two courts. The Black Court deals with death, going into the mortal world and reaping souls. The White Court deals with life, going into the mortal world and delivering souls to babies. Reapers and storks. The chessboard is basically a fight for the privilege to go back into the mortal world. You could walk among the living as if you're still alive."

"Damn," whispers someone.

"World domination," I joke, wiping the dust off of my fingertips. "It could happen from any one of us."

"Thank you, Miss Xi," says the man, tapping his manicured fingers by the second.

"What is your name?" I furrow my eyebrows and catch the slightest tick in his chiseled jaw. Gloria would also think he is a handsome piece of male specimen. Dark hair, tall, undeniably charming at times. Slightly tanned skin and a voice with the slightest accent I can't place.

Maybe French, but I can't be sure.

He puckers his pale lips and shakes his head. "Moving on, we shall talk about more important subjects. Your survival is more important than my name. The chessboard"—he pauses—"is the most wonderful—"

"It is a game of endless carnage, gruesome deaths, and masked violence," I interrupt, watching all the eyes dart back to me. "By the end of each cycle—a year—all sixteen pawns have either died or been promoted or given up. Then another fresh batch of pawns come. It is a vicious cycle with no conclusion."

"Miss Xi…" He winces, as if realizing all of the other pawns aren't buying into his sunny version of the afterlife.

"I have something called brutal honesty. You should try it sometimes," I suggest, cheerfully taking down the illusion of a beautiful utopia. "I see the chessboard for what it is. And it isn't wise to tell us pretty lies."

"Right on," mutters one of my fellow prison mates.

"The game takes place on the chessboard." The suit sighs, patting his own forehead. "Each piece has different powers. Kings possess compulsion—the ability to control someone's mind. Queens are the most powerful"—I sit up taller, smiling broader—"pieces on the board. Teleportation and precognition of both past and future events. Bishops and rooks both possess teleportation. But while rooks predict only the future, bishops can only see the past."

The excitement on everyone's face is palpable. Except for that one solemn boy near the end of the table. He rubs his forehead and yawns.

"Knights," continues on the man, "have camouflage and teleportation. And that brings us to the pawns. All"—he glance at each and every one of us—"of you are pawns. You have nothing."

"What?" exclaims a tanned boy. "That is so boring!"

"And all chess pieces, including you, have the basic powers." He pauses. "That is regeneration and telekinesis. But every other piece has the same powers as you. Queens can levitate objects and heal quickly. So can bishops. The list goes on."

"That's awesome." Zoey swivels in her chair. "When can we start?"

The man shifts his weight, inhaling deeply for a long moment. "But this is where I make you a different offer. You can stay in Punishment and carry out your sentence. Or you can go to the chessboard, hope you don't die by the end of the cycle, and promote yourself into a knight, bishop, or any other of the pieces. I must warn you that if you play this game, there is a chance you'll receive a harsher punishment upon your soul's retrial. The chessboard is breeding grounds for murderers and thieves and liars."

"I'm staying," says the sullen-faced boy with a shiny forehead. Sweat drips from his eyebrow. "I'm staying in Punishment."

The man raises his eyebrow. "Alright, you may stay."

"Hang on," mutters the other Asian in this room. He lifts his leg onto the table, yanks up his pants' sleeve, and reveals a prosthetic leg ending mid-thigh. We all stare at the strange metallic object with morbid fascination. "If we have regeneration, then why hasn't my leg healed? It was blown to bits in a horrible accident."

"Regeneration heals your death wound and anything after. Any inflicted wounds and scars before your death will remain on your body. A tiny paper cut on your thumb will remain there for eternity." The man paused, tilting his head. "There is one exception. In Paradise and Punishment, we can allow your body to grow it back. In Punishment, we like to cut it off as soon as it comes back."

Sweat forms underneath my palm.

I shouldn't expect anything less of Punishment.

Lucia gags, smiling slightly with troubled eyes. Still, she says, "I want to advance onto the chessboard. I'm not staying in hell."

"Of course." The man nods, adjusting his exposed cuffs. "There is one more thing. If any of you die on the chessboard, you'll be sent back here after a quick retrial. Your judgement trial."

Judgement trial is where someone—or even something—determines where a soul belongs to. Most people turn to Limbo and Punishment. A person sentenced to Paradise is rare but not impossible.

By the end of the meeting, only two people choose to stay in Punishment. Two less competitors for me, thankfully.

I advance on to the chessboard. My family has been teaching me about this "privilege" since I was five years old. I'm prepared for this.

I have been trained for this. For a decade, in fact.

At the border of Punishment and the chessboard, we get our clothes back. I change at the speed of light in a cell, eagerly escaping the sagging jumpsuit. Once I'm back in my familiar designer clothes, I head out of the changing rooms, walk as I'm escorted by prison guards, and watch as a guard pushes a button to let the girls and me out of the sterile jail. We step outside, breathing outside air again.

Punishment feels like a SoCal morning. Dew clings to the white walls of the prison, and it smells as if the sky recently rained. The morning fog hides away the rest of Punishment, swallowing the maximum prisons into its stomach.

Like San Francisco's fog around the Golden Gate Bridge.

I glance up. Beautiful morning sky with the moon in the east and loads of clouds. A tiny hint of a star—Venus perhaps. The horizon glows, hiding away the sun just for a little while.

I scan the terrain, my eyes landing on the fence and what lays beyond it. Instantly, I know what the fence separates. I can see the stark difference between the chessboard and Punishment. In Punishment, nothing grows unless it fulfils a purpose. On the chessboard, simple shrubs litter the terrain.

At least, there's some life. Better than none.

The boys soon join us. Along with the suit.

Three prison guards personally escort us through a break in the fence. One of the male prisoners wearing a green shirt spit in the eye of a female guard. She does nothing to wipe away his spit, just coldly watches him make his way onto the chessboard. His spit drips down to her cheekbones, but she acts as if he has done nothing to her.

I shiver at her icy gaze. There is something wrong about her. I would have screamed at him and then kicked him in the cojones.

Once we are all on the other side with the gates closed, the suit gives us all a long, dangerous look and then says, "You may go now. There is a woman named Isabella Miller. She is hosting a party for your introductions."

"Introductions for what?" demands Lucia.

"Mentorship," he answers.

"Since when does the chessboard do mentorship?" She gasps in horror. From the shiny combat boots and camouflage uniform she's sporting, she is ready for battle. I bet her pants are blood-proof—not just waterproof.

A trained girl—just like me.

"Since the Queen of Life took over," he replies, a small smile on his face. He intertwines his fingers with the chain fence and stares at us from hell. With his chin up, he views us like how a lord would survey his servants. "You may go now. Better not be late. Isabella throws a nasty tantrum."

"How do we get there?" I narrow my eyes and then turn my head north.

A scrubland lays before us for seemingly endless directions. The sun beats down on me, making my armpits sweat and my neck too warm. I pull off my useless scarf and fumble through my purse. Where are my sunglasses? Ah, there they are.

I put them on.

"Follow the trail."

"What trail?" inquires Lucia. She throws her arm out and hisses. "I hate to agree with Ash, but seriously? What trail?"

"The trail." He gestures in a vague direction. "Just go north. If you get too lost, someone will come and guide you."

"That sounds helpful," Zoey sarcastically replies. "¡Vete a la verga culero!"

The man folds his arms over his chest, clearly not impressed. His silence speaks for himself, and none of us need a single word.

"Come on," I say half-heartedly to none. I start north, pushing my way through the coarse shrubs. I barely manage to avoid a cactus, as I, unbalanced, rock back and forth in my Jimmy Choo. They are not fit for hard terrains. I wipe the salty sweat off my forehead, and I find myself thinking about the future. Not about the present.

Quickly, I find a familiar face in my memory. My cousin, Gloria with her doe eyes and messy hair in an even messier ponytail. I could hear an echo of her laugh and even her words—Come on, cousin. I blink furiously and gasp. Sweat pours from my armpits, and I'm on the verge of slipping into unconsciousness.

Somewhere, I gather enough strength to not give up. I shrug off my grey cardigan and shove it into my purse. It's too hot—just like a desert.

It takes me one fall to realize I can't walk properly. I embarrassingly stumble into the ground, and I glance around—many eyes unfortunately on me. Blushing fiercely and kicking up the dust, I pull off my pumps and shove them into my shoulder bag. When my bare feet hits the rocks and steps on them, I yelp at the burning heat. Still, I continue on.

I wave off the curious and worried faces. "I'm alright! Freaking pumps."

Then we all march north.

I lick my cracked lips and look back into the distance. Punishment looms behind me, its tall and imposing buildings shining in the sunlight. The fog begins dispersing, and the barbed wires disappear into thin air. From here, I can hear the slightest scream carried by the rushing wind. I tighten my hands into a fist and turn my face back north. I'm glad to leave hell.

I reach back into my shoulder bag and pull the scarf over my eyes. It slightly protects my forehead and face from the fierceness of the blinding sun.

And we continue walking.

"This is completely useless," shouts one prisoner, who likes to talk and waste his breath. Born and bred in America, obviously. He looks like a Hollister model from his body type, but he possesses a horrible attitude. Constantly complaining about this "torture." Doesn't he realize that we are all going through it?

"Shut up and deal with it, Derek," hollers Lucia. She marches on with her combat boots, sweat wetting her shirt.

I breathe evenly. I don't feel the blisters on my feet anymore nor do I feel the pain or the heat. I tug the scarf more over my eyes, avoiding the sun's painful gaze.

The other pawns like to talk, just trying to pass the time. I don't. I have to save all the breath I can, and I know I can't exert too much energy. It seems like only five other pawns have been trained for this. The training shows in the way they walk, in the way they move, in the way they remain on guard, and in the way they look at the other—clearly untrained—pawns in displeasure.

"We are working so hard," whines Derek, his green shirt soaking up all his sweat. Then his hazel eyes light up. "Do you think we can use telekinesis?"

I focus on the rocks ahead of me. Another steep hill. I slowly bend over, carefully climbing up and placing my hands and feet on stable ground. Nothing like a fall to slow me down. I ignore the fact I'm wearing a skirt—not pants.

I would kill for an ocean breeze.

Derek starts, "Do you think—?"

Another pawn—a trained one who is ahead of Derek—kicks Derek's hand off the rock. He watches calculatingly as Derek slips down the steep incline. "Hey, dickhead!" yells the muscular pawn, his thick accent barely affecting his animosity. A blood-red bandana covers his forehead. "Stop bitching like a little baby."

Derek pushes himself up and throws his arms up. "Hey! You want to go! We can go right here. Come on, little man."

Turn my head, I look back and forth from Derek to the "little man." But it's the Asian pawn next to bandana pawn that begins to move. Disaster's coming and brewing.

"Don't do it," yells Lucia, screaming right at the Asian pawn stalking towards Derek. "Don't be stupid. He isn't worth it."

The pawn moves quickly across the terrain, almost like a ghost. Moving like a lightning bolt, he grabs Derek's head, spins Derek completely around, and executes a flawless chokehold. Derek's legs flail helplessly, kicking at the dust. The pawn takes out a switchblade from his pocket and slits his throat from the left to the right. Derek falls to the ground, and the pawn kneels down. Slowly, disgustingly, he reaches into Derek's neck and saws head from body. Blood spews all over the ground, and I tear my eyes away.

He's a trained killer.

I close my eyes for a quick second, and I allow myself to feel the shock. I shiver slightly, despite the desert heat. Then no more. I lick my lips, desperate for some water and wiping the sweaty droplets off my forehead.

Eventually, Derek's killer speed-walks back to us and rejoins to form a group of one less pawn. We leave Derek's body behind and let it rot.

Most of the group moves away from Derek's killer. I decrease my pace until I'm right by his side. Putting on my most innocent face I have, I softly ask, "What is your name?"

He gives me the slightest glance. His black eyes linger on my face and then examine my body with a look too crafty for my taste, but it isn't surprising when considering the fact that he just murdered someone two minutes ago. The wind blows his wild night-black hair, messing it up. He is a little giant for a man but taller than me by an inch. Gruffly, he answers, "Ito Hayate."

"Japanese?" I guess.

He nods.

"Chinese American," I tell him, holding my hand out. "Xi Chang'e. My American name is Ashlina. Ash is okay."

"Legacy?" He shakes my hand, his grip loose.

"Yes," I confirm.

"Hayate. My first name."

"I know." I smile at him, taking my hand back. "In Chinese, the order is the same way. Last name first. Then first name."

He echoes my words. "I know."

A scream slices across the silence we have ensured.

We all turn to the source.

A tall girl dances next to Lucia, practicing sword forms. With a katana—a type of Japanese sword in her right hand. She moves gracefully over the uneven ground and spins around to face us. She hollers, "Oi! What are all of you standing around for? If you gits stay here for another minute, the Queen of Life will peg you all as boneheads."

"Wait!" I call out.

She stops practicing her sword forms. Turning towards me, she adjusts her "don't-give-a-hell" duster with an equally death-inspiring boots. More than prepared to kill, she narrows her brown eyes at me. Her tannish skin gleams with perspiration. "Get on with your questions!"

"Where is Isabella Miller's party?"

"Keep on hiking north!" Then she disappears into thin air.

Most of the pawns gape at her teleportation.

Hayate and I don't—acting as if we have seen it all. We continue on north, and wiping away the sweat and hissing, I say, "I should have asked for water instead."

A grunt is all the answer I get from him.

In the distance, a sparkling lake winks at us.

My mouth drools a little at the thought of water. In my purse, I have a pair of shoes, an iPod, a wallet, two personal agendas, a melted chocolate bar, an extensive makeup kit, and exactly twenty-seven business cards. None of them are useful to me right now.

I strain my eyes. Damn sun. The orange-yellow bob of hellish fire refuses to stop beating down upon me. Sweat pours from my forehead and ruins my shirt. Fashion is not meant to look sweaty, dirty, and/or disgusting. But I'm glad I wore a maxi skirt when I died.

Next to the lake sits a mansion. Four stories high and complete with a patio, the home is fit for a celebrity. From the white-painted walls to the kept grass, someone—or an army of housekeepers—keep the house straight and pretty. A pale curtain waves from the open screen door of the balcony on the second floor. As I move closer, my feet no longer hurt so much. No rough stones, no sharp shrubs!

I fall into the tree's shadow and rest for a moment. Hayate reaches out his hand, and I take his bloodied palms and pull myself up. "Thanks."

He inclines his head, but says not a single word.

Once I step into the mansion, cold air presses against me. I shiver and leave the sweltering heat behind. I pull off my scarf and sunglasses, allowing my eyes to adjust. My eyes adjust to the stairs gliding downwards to the first floors from the second. I turn to the right. A large mirror leans against the wall. I step closer, fixing my wind-blown hair and raccoon eyes. I wipe away the mascara with a wet napkin and check my teeth.

No red lipstick stains. Good.

I wipe the dirt off my face, not bothering to put makeup back on. Hayate, in his bloody t-shirt and white khakis, says, "What now?"

"I don't know," I reply, turning towards him. I count the other pawns. We are all similar in one way: dead tired.

"The swordswoman."

"Yes?" I mutter. Together, we stand and glance at the other pawns warily. I brush my hair, straightening what I can. "What about her?"

"She could only be a queen, rook, bishop, or knight."

I raise my eyebrows. "Are you trying to work with me?"

His eyes widen for a brief second. Shock, perhaps? Or curiosity for a girl who is willing to work with a killer? He suggests, "Alliance?"

"Yes." I smile, shaking hands with his bloodied ones.

An alliance between pawns means that we agree to help each other out. Promotion—becoming part of the esteemed upper class—is nearly impossible to attain. Alliance makes the possibility of promotion higher—assuming Hayate doesn't backstab me.

And Hayate is not someone I want on my bad side. His cold effectiveness at killing a pawn can be easily turned against me. What can't be controlled must be watched very carefully.

"Oh, good! You are all here." A woman, suddenly appearing in the midst of our group, beckons us to follow her. We all do, watching her blue train swish back and forth as she walks. Her dress is backless, and too many eyes linger on her spine and curves. Sleeveless, it would fall down if the thumb-sized straps snapped. "Where did all of you come from?"

"Punishment," answers Lucia.

"What crimes?"

No one utters a word.

"Theft," I reply boldly.

The woman stops and spins around. Her high cheekbones and small lips—accented with pink lipstick—make her petite, delicate, and beautiful. A deep V-shaped dip in front of her blue silk dress threatens a horrible wardrobe malfunction. She looks at me, analyzing my body and then my outfit. A broad smile shines through, and she casually asks, "Is that a Gucci shoulder bag made out of real leather?"

"Yes." I nod, pasting a little smile on my face.

"Hmm," she pauses, eyes glancing down. "Why are you barefoot?"

"It is either that or break my Jimmy Choo."

She grins and then lets out a throaty laugh. "I like you." Then she spins around and continues leading us—like a shepherd guiding a flock of sheep. "My name is Isabella Miller. Call me Belle."

"Isabella Miller? As in the former Miss Germany?" I inquire.

Hayate leans towards my ear, takes ahold of my elbow, and then whispers, "What's Miss Germany?" Confusion stretches across his face, painting him with wrinkled eyebrows and an unsmiling face.

"A pageant," I whisper back.

He lets me go.

"You heard how I was murdered, Miss…?"

"Xi," I finish, searching for my fellow pawns. We all follow Belle, and I'm very disturbed by the number of eyes on me. Not good, I think. "Ash is my first name. I heard you were murdered over a decade and a half ago. A pity to die so young."

She flashes a quick smile at me, not taking my words so seriously or personally. "And you were in a pageant, too. You were Miss California. And then you advanced into the Miss Teen United States contest. First runner up, and I believe you were Miss United States for a brief month or so, because the winner was ill. A shame you didn't go to Miss Teen Universe."

"A shame I didn't win Miss Teen United States." I cough and then raise my head higher, ignoring the curious eyes piercing my back. "How do you know so much about me?"

"Precognition," she answers.

"Not a knight," mutters Hayate.

I agree, nodding. Knights don't possess precognition.

"All of you belong to Punishment?" She stops and coolly surveys the backyard. Servants—all Shades—put round tables on the vibrant lawn. She steps down the stairs, almost gliding. "I don't recall your numbers being so small."

Silence answers her.

"On average, there are ten pawns sentenced to Punishment. Four to Limbo. Two to Paradise," she explains, shrugging. "Come along. Feel free to wander around. Don't kill anyone. Yet." Another long pause. "Lucia Schwarz, I want you to avoid the Scotch. You're horrible under its influence. The effects are the worst for you."

Lucia's mouth drops. "What?"

"Precognition." Belle taps the side of her head. "Don't think otherwise, okay? You're going to get terribly drunk if you drink Scotch. Rowdy. Breaking my stuff. All of you may join the party. The rest of the pawns will be here soon."

We stand around for a moment, all crowding on the patio. Then slowly, we make their way down to the grass and pull out chairs. I find myself squeezed between Belle and Hayate. On her right sits Zoey Castillo, who rests her dark head on the white-linen cloth.

"I haven't met another pageant winner in a long time," she says, sighing. She rearranges the forks, putting them on the left side of the plate. Then she switches them back—all with an air of aristocracy and confidence. "So how many pawns were there originally?"

"Eleven," I answer.

"Hayate, is it?" Belle narrows her baby-blue eyes. "Yes, Hayate Ito. You're not very talkative."

He merely grunts in reply.

"Don't worry about him." Drawing the attention back to me, I tell her, "Two pawns decided to stay behind in Punishment. One died on the journey here. We're a party of eight now."

"Died?" She sighs again, standing up and patting down her perfect hair. Spilling over her shoulder like a blond waterfall, her hair begins at the forehead and rests at the bottom of her left breast. Perfectly straight and smelling of hairspray. "Enjoy the party, Ash."

"Thank you."

I watch her leave.

Hayate whispers, "Thanks."

"No problem. What are allies for?"

To my words, he smiles a small grin. He pours tea into my tea cup and then his. Taking his cup, he raises it to me and drinks deeply.

I return the gesture.

Allies. It's a strange word, I admit.

But this is a strange game.

**Author's Note:**

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